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Page 118
Chapter Six
The marvelous gait of the great gray destrier, moving as if there were no more than a feather on its backa feather that must not be dislodged by uneven jostlingsoothed Ian. For a while, he had returned to the happy days when Alinor's gift to him carried him proudly among the hills of Wales, when his friendship with Lord Llewelyn had been first forged. Girls were for tumbling then, without love and without regret. Love was a star, so distant that to look upon it was an unalloyed joy. One does not hope to seize a star.
Deliberately Ian did not think of the later years when a more mature man suppressed a less pure longing. He thought of the gray stallion, now grown old, running loose among the mares on his northern lands. So far, the animal had not brought forth a get of his own nature. There were colts, better than the mares that bred them, but seemingly none with the thews or spirit of the sire. The flicker of regret Ian felt for that was immediately washed away by pleasure. It no longer mattered. He possessively stroked the silken gray neck. They were all his now, stallions and mares. What a fool he had been to feel hurt at Alinor's offer of the horse. She was keeping her promise. Everything she could offer him was being given freely and without grudging.
Shying away from the thought of what could not be given by her will, Ian turned his attention to the countryside. He was momentarily distracted from tactical considerations by its beauty. The sun had finally emerged, and the beeches and oaks that dotted the

 
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